Operation Massacre (7 page)

 

12.
“I'm Going to Work . . .”

He is a tower of a man, this Vicente Damián Rodríguez, a thirty-five-year-old man who loads cargo at the port and, heavy as he is, plays soccer, a man who retains something childlike in his loudness and his crankiness, who aspires to more than he is able to do, who has bad luck, who will end up chewing on the grass of a barren field, asking desperately for them to kill him, for them to finish killing him since the death that he is gulping down won't get done flooding him through the ridiculous holes that the Mauser bullets are leaving in him.

He would have liked to be something in life, Vicente Rodríguez. He is teeming with great ideas, great gestures, great words. But life is fierce with people like him. Just having a life will be a constant uphill struggle. And losing it, a never-ending process.

He is married, has three kids and loves them, but of course they need to be fed and sent to school. And that poor house that he rents, surrounded by that thick, dirty wall with that stretch of uncultivated land where the chickens do their pecking, is not what he imagined it would be. Nothing is as he imagined it would be.

He never manages to properly transfer the sense of power that his vigorous muscles give him to the objective world around him. At one time, it's true, he is active in his union and even serves as a representative, but later all of that falls apart. There's no union, no representatives in his life anymore. That's when he understands that he is nobody, that the world belongs to doctors. The sign of his defeat is very clear: in his neighborhood, there is a club, and in that club, a library; he will come here in search of that miraculous source—books—that power seems to flow from.

We don't know if he even gets a chance to read the books, but what will remain of Rodríguez's passing through this cannibalistic time that we are living in—aside from the misery in which he leaves his wife and children—is an opaque photograph with a blurred stamp on it that simply says “Library.”

Rodríguez has left his house—
4545
Yrigoyen Street—around nine o'clock. And he has set out on the wrong foot. To his wife, he says:

—I'm going to work.

Is it an innocent lie to cover up one more outing? Is he hiding something more serious, namely his plan to take part in the movement? Or is he really going to work? It's true that more than an hour has passed since he left the house, but the street that he's walking along leads to the station. From there he can get on the train that takes him to the port in twenty-five minutes where he might ask for an extra shift at work.

It's hard to tell. In this case, just as in others. On the one hand, Rodríguez is in the opposition, a Peronist. On the other, he is an open, talkative man who finds it very difficult to keep quiet about something important. And he hasn't said anything to his wife, whom he has been married to for thirteen years. Not even insinuated it. He has simply told her: “I'm going to work,” and has said goodbye in the usual way, without any trace of impatience or anxiety.

Then again, it's worth considering his behavior later on. He is completely passive when they take him to be killed in the assault car. A survivor who knew him well will later observe:

—If the Big Guy had wanted to, he could've messed those thugs up in a heartbeat . . .

It could be that he never thought they were going to kill him, not even at the last minute, when it was obvious.

The two friends chat for a moment. Livraga had lent him a suitcase a few days back to carry equipment for the soccer club where they both play.

—When are you coming by to get it? —Rodríguez asks him.

—Let's go now, if you want.

—While we're at it, we can listen to the fight.

A lot of people are talking about this fight. At eleven o'clock the champion, Lausse, who just finished a triumphant run in the United States, will fight the Chilean Loayza for the middleweight South American title.

Livraga is a boxing enthusiast and has no trouble accepting the offer. They head to Rodríguez's house. We don't know what excuse Rodríguez is thinking of giving his wife, and it doesn't matter anyway, because he won't have the chance. Fifty meters away from his house, he stops in front of the building with the light blue gates, sees there is a light on in the back apartment, and says:

—Wait for me a minute.

He goes in, but comes back right away.

—We can listen to the fight here. They have the radio on. —And he clarifies:— They're friends of mine.

Livraga shrugs his shoulders. It makes no difference to him.

They enter the long corridor.

 

13.
The Unknowns

Is there anyone else in the back apartment? Carranza, Garibotti, Díaz, Lizaso, Gavino, Torres, Brión, Rodríguez, and Livraga are all there for sure. “Marcelo” has been by three times and won't be back. Some friends of Gavino came by but have also left early. We know at the very least of one neighbor, an acquaintance of Brión's who has come to hear the fight like he has; at the last minute, though, he feels sick, leaves, and saves himself.

The parade does not end there. Around a quarter to eleven, two strangers show up who—if what was about to happen were not so tragic—make the scene ripe for a comedy. Torres thinks they are Gavino's friends. Gavino thinks they are Torres's friends. Only later will they learn that these men are cops. They stay a few minutes, moving between groups, investigating the situation. When they leave, they will report that there are no weapons on site and that the coast is clear.

It's a necessary precaution because the site is configured in such a way that, from the metallic door that grants access to the apartment, a man armed with a simple revolver could control the entire corridor. He could make it difficult for several whole minutes for any potential enemy to enter. With a machine gun, the position could be held for hours.

Yet when the police—who at that same moment are inspecting a bus at the Saavedra Bridge stop—arrive, no one will show even the slightest resistance. Not a single shot will be fired.

But is there anybody else, aside from those already mentioned? It will be hard to find a witness who remembers everyone; those who would be able to are either missing or dead. We can only guide ourselves with clues. Torres, for instance, will say that there were two more men. He knew that one of the men was an Army NCO. As for the second man, he didn't even know that much.

Other indirect testimonies also mention the NCO. And they specify: sergeant. The descriptions are confusing and divergent. It seems he got there at the last minute . . . No one knows who brought him . . . Hardly anyone there knew him . . . Someone, though, will see him again, or will believe he sees him, hours later, at the moment when he gets hit with a bullet and collapses.

And the second man? We don't even know if he existed. Or what his name was, or who he was. Or if he is alive or dead.

With respect to these two men, our search came to a dead end.

It's a few minutes to eleven. The radio is broadcasting the undercards of the boxing match. The group playing cards falls silent when the commentator announces the presence of Lausse the champion and Loayza the Chilean in the ring.

In the meantime, Giunta has arrived at the apartment in front at around ten-thirty. A perfect calm reigns over Mr. Horacio's house. Señora Pilar talks to them for a few minutes before turning in. Her daughter Nélida is preparing
mate
for the guest while Mr. Horacio turns on the receiver.

If he happens to tune in to State Radio, the official voice of the Nation, he will find that they have just finished playing a Bach concert and that at
10
:
59
p.m., they begin playing a Ravel concert . . .

At around the same time, twenty men have just finished gathering at Florida's Second Precinct to carry out a mysterious operation.

When Officer Pena finds out who is leading the men, he thinks:
Something big
.

The word revolution has not yet been uttered. Certainly not on Radio Splendid, where you can hear the tense voice of Fioravanti, the commentator relaying the first moves of the match, over the buzzing of the crowd.

It's a short and violent fight, and by the second round the outcome seems practically decided. It lasts less than ten minutes in total. Somewhere in the middle of the third round, the champion knocks Loayza out for the count.

The owner of the house and Giunta looked at each other with smiles of satisfaction.

Giunta was drinking a glass of gin and getting ready to go. From the bedroom, Señora Pilar asked her husband for a hot water bottle. Mr. Horacio went to the kitchen, filled up the bottle, and was coming back with it when they heard violent knocks on the door. They sounded like blows made with the butt of a gun or a rifle.

The shout sounded out in the silence of the night:

—Police!

 

Part Two

The Events

 

14.
Where is Tanco?

Mr. Horacio is so taken aback that he doesn't even manage to put down the hot water bottle. He runs, turns the key in the lock, and before he can unhook the chain, the door is pushed in violently from the other side, the bolt jumps, and he is shoved, surrounded, mobbed by the throng of policemen and individuals armed with weapons big and small, who in a few seconds flood all the rooms of the house, and whose voices are soon heard in the patio and the corridor that leads to the back. Everything happens at the speed of lightning.

The one in charge is a tall, heavyset, dark-haired, mustached man with a striking sense of authority. He brandishes a .
45
caliber pistol in his right hand. He shouts in a deep, husky voice that makes him sound drunk at times. He is wearing light pants and a short, olive green jacket: it is the uniform of the Argentine Army.

Mr. Horacio has taken a step back, terrified. He manages only to put his hands up, still holding onto the hot water bottle that at this point is burning his fingers. The leader of the group knocks it out of his hand with a smack.

—Where is Tanco? —he shouts.

The head of the household looks at him, not understanding. It is the first time he has heard the name of the rebel general whose dramatic escape from the wall in front of the firing squad people will only hear about a few days later. The leader of the group pushes him aside and walks up to face the other one, to face Giunta.

Giunta is simply petrified. He is still in his chair, open-mouthed, eyes enormous, unable to move. The leader approaches him and deliberately, delicately, puts the gun to his throat.

—Don't be smart with me! —he says to him in a deep voice.— Put your hands up!

Giunta puts his hands up. Then he hears that mysterious question for a second time, the one that keeps being repeated like a nightmare. Where is Tanco.
Where is Tanco?

His stunned silence earns him a blow that nearly knocks him off his chair. We will see this left-handed punch—which is protected by the menacing weapon that the right hand is brandishing—again. It seems to be a favorite of the man who is using it.

The scene was electrifying and it happened fast. What follows happens just as fast and in the form of a crackling of commands:

—Grab that old guy and this other guy and take them out to the car!

They don't even have time to object. They are taken out and thrust into a Florida precinct car, a Plymouth. A red bus and a light blue police van with a mobile radio are parked on the same sidewalk.

In the meantime, it seems that a man has escaped from the patio of the building—Torres—and someone else—Lizaso—has tried to do the same and failed.

The patio belongs to the apartment in front, but is connected in a roundabout way to the back through a little door. The little door opens into the corridor, the one with the privet hedge.

The whole episode is confusing and no two versions of it are alike. A consolidation of all the different versions suggests that Torres, accompanied by Lizaso, was walking to Mr. Horacio's apartment, taking the same route as usual, to ask if he could use the phone, which he did quite regularly. It was then that they heard and maybe saw the police arriving.

Torres doesn't hesitate. The fence around the patio is not very high. He jumps it in one try and flees through the neighboring buildings. In his frenzied dash, he jumps over hedges and roofs, rips his clothes, seriously wounds his hand and neck—he'll never know how—zigzags across blocks and blocks, finally gets on a bus and, bleeding and exhausted, finds shelter. In a way, he was the first survivor.

There are three versions of Carlitos Lizaso's story. The first is that he was able to reach a nearby piping plant where the night watchman would not let him hide, which in turn led to his capture. The second is that he was caught in the patio after the fence collapsed under his weight. The last is that he did not even try to escape. The only thing we know for sure is that he was arrested.

In the meantime, the same astounding and savage scene has taken place in the back apartment. The police encounter no opposition when they enter. No one budges. No one protests or even resists. The guard Ramón Madialdea will state later that “a gun with a pearl handle” was confiscated here. That weapon (if it existed) was the only one in the house.

They order them onto the street, one by one. The leader of the group is waiting for them there, quick to shout at them again, punching and kicking them as they load them onto the bus. He hammers Livraga in the stomach with the barrel of the gun, yelling:

—So you were going to start a revolution, huh? With that face?

He said the same thing to Carlitos Lizaso. He begins asking everyone their names. You can tell by his gesture of disdain—the “Come on, move!” that he uses to push them toward the bus—that most of them mean nothing to him. But Gavino's name is like a revelation to him. His face lights up with joy.

He grabs him forcefully by the neck and in one swift movement inserts the barrel of the gun in his mouth.

—So you're Gavino! —he howls.— So you're . . . !

His finger trembles on the trigger. His eyes are radiant.

—Tell me where you've hidden him —he orders sternly.—
Where is Tanco!
Now, right away, because I'll kill you, I'll kill you right here! It's no skin off my back!

The barrel of the gun clatters between Gavino's teeth. A trail of blood flows from his split lip. His eyes are glazed over with fear.

But he doesn't tell him where Tanco is. Either he is a hero, or he hasn't the slightest idea where the rebel general is . . .
12

They tell Giunta and Di Chiano to get out of the car and make them get on the bus too. At the last minute, three more men who have been arrested nearby get on as well. One is the night watchman at the piping plant. Another is a driver who happened to be passing by. And the third is a young man who was saying goodnight to his girlfriend at her house . . .

The bus—the fortieth one on the
19
line—sets out with its usual driver, Pedro Alberto Fernández, whom they detained for their use forty-five minutes ago. The prisoners don't know where they are going or why—except for maybe one or two of them—they are being taken.

But one of them will manage to hear a revealing part of a conversation between the guards.

“That one,” the one leading the operation, the Army man dressed in uniform, the even-handed dealer of kicks and blows, the one whom everyone addresses respectfully as “sir,” while referring to him by a more familiar nickname from a distance—that man was the chief of the Police Department of the Province of Buenos Aires, (RET) Lieutenant Colonel Desiderio A. Fernández Suárez.

***

Señora Pilar and her daughter believe they are living a nightmare that will not end. The house is still being invaded by men searching the furniture and the drawers, interrogating them, and shouting at the top of their lungs. More commands come in from outside, sharp as bullets.

Amid all of this, though, they happen to witness a strange incident. The Chief of Police goes back, picks up the phone, and speaks in an altered voice. They manage to catch only a few snippets of the conversation and the name of a woman:

—. . . A total success . . . Amazing . . . It looks like they started something down south too . . . Tell Cacho to take care of herself . . . Yes, a total success . . .

After the conversation has ended, he joins the others in searching the house. Nélida tries to step away from the bedroom where the Chief of Police is looking for revolutionary schemes among her undergarments, or maybe for Tanco himself. But he makes her come back, “so that later she doesn't say something's missing.”

The first phase of “Operation Massacre” has passed quickly. It is barely
11
:
30
p.m. At that exact moment, State Radio, the official voice of the Nation, cuts Ravel's music short and starts playing Igor Stravinsky's
6489
/
94
recording.

Footnotes: